


Cake

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Battlefield Earth (2000)
Genre: Dubious Consent, I Cannot Believe This Is the Only English-Language Fic For This Shitty Film, I Wrote This After Too Many Drinks, M/M, Please Do Not Take This Seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24565306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: Chief Terl was predictable, but Jonnie supposed that was part of his charm.(This is 100% a crackfic I wrote because I was tipsy thanks to the Battlefield Earth drinking game and spent 99% of the film wishing Terl and Jonnie would just hatefuck. Please do not take this seriously, for the love of God.)
Relationships: Terl/Jonnie
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Cake

Chief Terl was predictable, but Jonnie supposed that was part of his charm.

No surprises. Betrayal that he hid poorly behind the warped gargle of the Psychlos tongue. He'd never sampled cake — that strange confection coated with a milk-colored sweetness they'd called "frosting" — but the phrase "piece of cake" seemed to describe him perfectly, if the Knowledge Machines spoke true. 

Thinking on it literally was illogical; Terl was none of the things that made cake desirable. Terl was sweet like medicine root, like rat flesh, like the sting of a breathing apparatus biting into his skin. He was fragrant like fertilizer or the stink of a woman left to sit in seven days of solitude, coated in her own sweat and foul blood. 

Perhaps the humans of old didn’t enjoy cake for its taste or scent, he mused. Cake, after all, could taste or look however one wished it to. The encyclopediae had shown brilliantly-colored treats, impossibly vibrant, made from dyes that no berry or herb could produce — no two cakes seemed to be alike, so surely their universal appeal wasn’t something as banal as flavor?

But cakes were a rare treat, a delicacy of sorts — not unlike the sugared fruits that children received on their Quickening, or that elders received before they were returned to the gods. Cakes were special not for their physical qualities, but for the kind of mental or spiritual sway they held.

So what made a Terl a “piece of cake”? Being easy to understand, less a matter of delight than predictability.

For all the things they knew, his kind were disappointingly easy to sway. As much as they sneered at “man-animals,” they weren’t blind enough to ignore their similarities. Tongues and fingers and physical dimensions may have differed, but hot-blooded creatures ( _endotherms_ , his mind supplied helpfully) knew how to seek heat from any orifice that would provide it.

Terl was no different. His tells were obvious: the way his voice would trial into a falsetto and the way his rough, mutilated hands seemed to always find its way around his throat. The wider Terl’s mouth twisted into a sneer, the sooner he knew he’d be chained and spread across the broad surface that could only be described as a bed — though how anyone could sleep on such a unforgiving surface, without even goatskins or feathers to cushion it, eluded him.

Comfort was a luxury Jonnie had learned to never expect. He counted himself lucky if Terl remembered that he could bleed. 

Today, thankfully, the Chief remembered, coating his taloned fingers in the pearl-like substance in from one of the translucent bottles he carried; Jonnie didn’t know what its intended use was, only that it smelled too stringent and burned too much to be meant for the way Terl used it.

Jonnie grit his teeth, ignoring the way his vision grew dark as the vicelike grip around his throat tightened and the fingers inside of him twisted like dull knives. Terl liked seeing his agony; sometimes it was easier to pretend he didn’t know, to give the barbarian precisely what he wanted to brings things to a close sooner. Terl’s weakness ( _Achilles_ _heel_ , he recalled from a book) was greed, almost admirable in its purity. Terl coveted, and suffered nothing to impede him.

He wanted freedom and stomped on others to grasp it. He wanted gold and crushed allegiances to clutch it. He wanted a tight little hole to bury himself in and shackled Jonnie to the bed in order to claim it.

It was easy when he knew Terl wanted agony and humiliation; Psychlos weren’t the only ones who liked to see pretty blonds with tear-streaked faces and asses with the grape-colored imprint of their own hands. Jonnie knew how to cry and shriek and play the village idiot; it was easier when others gave him a script to follow.

Often, Terl was cruel; there was a morbid delight in watching Terl lick blood — his blood — from his fingers right after claiming him. 

Sometimes he wasn’t, and that’s when he felt fear (it had to be fear) flutter in his belly.

Sometimes, Terl treated him the way he might have treated Chrissy, murmuring things in a way that, if not for the bestial nature of his mother tongue, could have been mistaken for fondness. The Psychlos’s hands were still rough and dry, his breath still feculent and unbearably hot against his neck — but sometimes he didn’t bleed, and sometimes the substance Terl licked from his fingers was the evidence of Jonnie’s own pleasure, glistening and dripping from the Chief’s fingers as if to mock him.

Terl was smart enough to know when a beast struggled; the first words he made sure Jonnie had learned were “no” and “stop”.

He was also smart enough to ignore how Jonnie refused to say them.

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself.


End file.
